


Something's Gotta Give

by jat_sapphire



Series: Cabaret Set [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 16:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: Doyle's hair is ruffled.  He remembers his mother.  Bodie changes his evening plans.





	Something's Gotta Give

 

>   
>  _When an irresistible force_  
>  _such as you_

 

The second time Bodie ruffled Doyle's hair in the same morning, in fact in the same hour, he got a realer glare than usual, and a growled “Gerroff,” which he ignored, as he nearly always did. This time, Bodie patted Doyle's shoulder as he veered away. His obvious objective was Julie, who smiled as he leaned over her desk, smiled at her, fiddled with her pen, and gave every sign of asking her for a date. While he waited for the end of this particular mating dance, Doyle couldn't help beginning to actually think about how often Bodie mauled him. And how little he really minded.

Like water on stone, it'd been, and water _from_ stone, really, considering how Bodie'd been at the beginning of their partnership. Dressed up like a mannequin, one hand tucked in his suit jacket as often as not, standing a half-step in front with his head bent just a bit and his mouth curved a bit more. Used to drive Doyle round the twist, it had, with its arrogance—not at all the kind of spit-and-polish he'd expected from ex-Paras or ex-SAS, or ex-mercenaries, for that matter. Doyle himself got even scruffier and leaned on walls and cabinets even more, in those days. A petty and ineffective revenge given that when Bodie was being most band-box, he couldn't even see what Doyle was doing. Except that, by the glint in his eye, he knew.

Doyle couldn't remember the first time Bodie had touched him. A nudge at the pub? A hand at his elbow to steer him away when his temper was about to get the best of him? A tap on the head when Bodie made some joke about his inattention? No matter, he'd done all those, and a hand on Doyle's back to steer him through a crowd, a hard clasp on Doyle's biceps to get his attention, a pat on his hip to move him out of the way, and that frequent interference with his hair, ruffling, patting, pulling on curls as they grew longer.

Doyle remembered his mother telling him, when he was just a boy, “If you were only a girl, I'd say he only does it because he likes you.” Her voice had been full of laughter, and her face too—so pretty, she'd been, in those days. She'd been running her own fingers through his hair at the time. They'd left it uncut over the summer, and it had grown out bushy and full of colour. He liked it, truth to say, and she liked it too, and it made the resemblance between the two of them sharper. In their family of flaming redheads, they stood out beautifully together, which was a silent rebuttal to the way his aunts and uncle and cousins talked about his mother while she wasn't there. When they touched his hair, there was no affection in it, and often a sting as they pulled on it and mocked him.

So in school, fourth form, when Patrick teased and pushed, took his pen and upset his books, grabbed the paper he'd been writing on and held it high (because Patrick grew tall before he did and was always ready to rag him about it), the pattern had seemed obvious. He'd believed Patrick disliked him. The way Patrick touched his hair and played with it and pulled his curls made Ray angry. And then his mother said that: “because he likes you.”

He'd smiled involuntarily, and said, “Really, Mam? You think?” Because Patrick was smart and funny, happy and silly with his friends. Ray would have liked to be one of them.

Her eyes got serious. He thought how beautiful they were, the tangle of colours round the pupil and the tilted shape of them. “Oh, my boy,” she said, taking him in her arms and holding tight. He didn't know why. “Oh, darling, be careful.”

Patrick did like him. Two years later, Patrick kissed him, and they might have gone on to sex and declarations of love, but Patrick's family moved out of town, and their letters gradually declined until one of them didn't answer at all. Now, Doyle wasn't even sure which it was.

_He only does it because he likes you._ Of course, Bodie liked him. They were good mates.

The memory made Doyle wonder, though.

 

> _Meets an old immovable object_  
>  _like me_

 

Cowley regarded them sourly. “I recognise, gentlemen, that vandalism and graffiti are not normally the business of this organisation.” Bodie scowled in a way that might have meant he didn't see why CI5 should be involved, but Doyle knew he was really enraged about the sabotage of the Test match. While Doyle didn't care greatly about the cricket, he was disturbed at the escalation of these protests and apprehensive about what the group's next move might be.

“Like to get me hands on the oiks who handled the shovels,” Bodie muttered.

“Well, 3-7, you will not. I want you two to guard an informant about the workings of the protest group and its further plans.”

“Babysitting? _Both_ of us?”

Doyle shook his head, knowing he was out of Bodie's line of sight. The suits were almost gone, the arrogant distance between them as if it had never been, but Bodie still took point in Cowley's office. When he disagreed, he said so, and generally, Cowley explained.  _And he says he's not the blue-eyed boy_ , Doyle thought. 

“We can't be certain what connections they've made. Revolutionaries love a prominent cause. The original group, especially the ones now in custody, seem honest and idealistic, but that may make them easy to manipulate. We don't want terrorists taking over, substituting bombs for graffiti.”

“No,” Bodie conceded.

He wasn't finished whinging about the cricket pitch, though. Seventy-six years of Test cricket, several examples of huge scores by cricketers whose names Doyle hadn't known and didn't remember ten seconds afterwards, the honour of the game, oh sacred ground. Doyle sighed.

“What're you moping about?”

“'M not moping.”

“Oh yes, you are.”

“Just can't get a word in edgewise, can I?”

Bodie said nothing, pointedly. Now that Doyle had conversational space, he realised he didn't really have anything to say, not about cricket, and not really about this Pat Rogers they were nursemaiding. Cowley'd had him put in a safe house, a small one with a tiny walled back garden, and a car with Morris and Donovan in front of the neighbor's. Bodie gave them a tiny wave as he went up the front stairs. Doyle looked up and down the street, which was mid-weekday empty. The door opened at their first touch on the bell, and Liz was inside. “3-7, 4-5,” she said, her voice tight. Doyle wondered if she were upset at Bodie about something.

He led the way into the lounge, hoping that if a few words could solve it, Bodie would say them, but the both of them just came in behind Doyle, who by that time was too astonished to care. “Patrick!” he said. “Patrick! It's you!” He laughed a little. “Mate, I was just thinking about you today!” They met in the middle of the room, and Doyle grasped Patrick's arms. “I didn't recognize your name. Lot o' Rogerses, innit? What a thing!”

“I didn't think you'd go in for … security services.” Patrick seemed as surprised as Doyle.

“Civil servant, me.” Doyle grinned. “Been too long, Patrick. Or Pat now, is it?”

“Yes.” Pat had aged, of course, had his own hair in a rooster shag, draggling down his neck and spiking out around the crown and above his ears. He wore aviator glasses tinted at the top. His polyester shirt had stripes across his chest. His moleskins flared at the bottom. He looked like a manager at Tesco's, or a primary school teacher.

Doyle let him go, turned to see Liz still looking vaguely cross and Bodie blank-faced, and said, “Pat and I were at school together.”

“Art school?” Bodie asked.

“No, I was a copper already then, the time I took the life-drawing class. I knew Pat in Derby. We were just lads.”

“Oh.”

The smile that had been stretching Doyle's face contracted, and he felt the car ride's discontent pull the corners of his mouth down. Bodie was looking everywhere but at him. Liz packed up the remains of her sandwiches and her Thermos with abrupt, stiff movements, leaving with scarcely a goodbye.

Pat went back to the sofa where he had been sitting, facing the empty fireplace, and stared into it.

After an awkward few seconds, Doyle went to sit at the other end of the sofa, where he had a view out the street-side window. It was mostly screened by juniper bushes. Bodie could see out the side window from where he stood, if he were looking. Doyle supposed he was.

 

> _When an irrepressible smile_  
>  _such as yours_  
>  _Warms an old implacable heart_  
>  _such as mine_

 

Cowley had not said they were to interrogate Pat, but it seemed a waste not to take some advantage of their old acquaintance. So Doyle said casually, “How'd you get involved with all this, then, Pat? Don't like cricket?”

“I don't like fit ups. What you have to understand, Ray, is ….”

He'd turned on a tap, Doyle realised. Pat told him the whole story, crime to conviction, explained why the man wasn't guilty and how the quieter forms of protest had not had enough effect, talked about the planning they'd done as if he'd been the head of it. Doyle could see that he was a foot-soldier at best. And dull with it; Doyle didn't remember Pat being dull in the old days. When he had at last exhausted that subject without saying anything new as far as Doyle could tell, he started talking about his bird, her name and description and how he'd met her, in entirely too much detail and yet without any of the salacious bits he and Bodie might have shared with each other. By this time, Bodie had been in and out of the room repeatedly, making security sweeps of the rest of the house while Doyle moved back and forth to cover both the windows. And Pat kept talking.

The endless flow of his voice made Doyle want to gag him. He knew what was going on, of course: he'd seen entirely too many men eager to talk themselves out of any hint that they might not be entirely heterosexual. Still, he wanted to shake Pat and say, _You were a boy, mate. It's been fifteen years, more. I might have been thinking of you today, but it wasn't because I fancy you now, so stop thinking I'm going to jump you._ He'd quite like to shake Bodie, too, for that blank-eyed, pressed-lips look.

His partner chose that moment to come back into the room. Doyle was standing between the windows, over Pat's shoulder while he talked about what a good cook his girl was. He rolled his eyes a bit in Bodie's direction, and at last the man smiled. It was one of his sunny, open smiles, too, and Doyle beamed back. Just lovely, that was. So he didn't want to shake Bodie after all.

Not _shake_ him.

Doyle had to look away. He tried the front window. Nothing was continuing to happen on the street. Pat seemed to have run down, though he might just be catching his breath.

Bodie paced closer, and Doyle was itchily aware of the movement, but hadn't noticed how close Bodie had come until he felt the touch—on his shoulder, then on the back of his neck. “Liz didn't leave us anything to eat. There's only tea, not even milk. Shall I go pick up some sarnies?” His breath bounced in the shell of Doyle's ear. He shivered, and tried to make it look like a startled movement, pulling his head back and staring as Bodie smiled again. This time it was the pouty smile that looked like he wanted a kiss.

Clearing his throat, Doyle said, “Egg. And cheese.”

“Tomato?” It was ridiculous how flirtatious a tone Bodie could get into his voice over things like filling the petrol tank or what was in a sarnie.

In desperation, Doyle asked, “Pat, you still like cheese and pickle?”

“Yeah.” Pat hardly moved.

He risked a look back at Bodie. “Morris and Donovan will owe you, too.”

“No, they won't,” Bodie said, seeming irritable. “'M not a tea-lady. They can get their own. If they're smart, they packed for the day.”

Doyle shrugged. He wasn't that concerned about how the two B-squad men ate.

 

> _Don't say no because I insist_  
>  _Somewhere, somehow,_  
>  _Someone's gonna be kissed_

 

While Bodie was gone, Doyle walked around the house almost constantly. The movement helped calm him, but he still kept thinking about Bodie's odd reactions today. He was as moody and changeable as Doyle himself had ever been accused of being. He _had_ chatted up Julie, but hadn't boasted in the car as he normally would. And why would he have assumed that, out of the twenty-five years or so when Doyle might have known Pat, they would have met during the six weeks of the life-drawing class? Odd, Bodie always was interested in that class. Doyle slipped into a daydream about that smile of Bodie's, the beautiful one. He hummed a little as he walked the first floor and trotted down the stairs.

Pat was taking a nap on the sofa. Doyle felt a little sympathy—if an obbo or a sweep like this were boring, how much duller it must be to be the one being watched or protected.

The long, loud buzz he and Bodie used on each other's doorbells sounded, and Doyle went to the door to let Bodie in. His arms were full of two bulging carrier bags.

“What on earth did you buy?” he asked, laughing.

“Didn't buy pre-made, did I? Got the bread and cheese and eggs an'all.”

Doyle shut and locked the door, but Bodie waited for him, so ended up following him to the kitchen. “How long d'you think we're staying?”

“Not long, I hope. Can take the rest home, after all.”

“Ah. Don't put it all on the expense chit, then.” Doyle went to the fridge and started putting away the perishable food, including a carton of ice cream and a head of lettuce. “You're mad, you know.”

Bodie got out plates and a pan for the egg. “No butter!” he said ruefully.

“Never mind.” They made sandwiches in companionable silence.

As Ray set aside Pat's plate, Bodie asked, his voice a little constrained, “Where'd you meet Rogers, again?”

“We were schoolboys, I said. Met in fourth form.”

“Funny thing to be thinking of today. Since you didn't know he was here.”

“I didn't.” Doyle sat down and pulled his own plate in front of him. Bodie didn't sit.

“What made you think about him?”

Doyle looked up, considered a sarky answer. It wasn't any of Bodie's business, after all. Much.

“He used to ruffle my hair, the way you do now,” he said at last.

“Y'mean like this?” And Bodie leaned over the table and scrubbed across the top of Doyle's head, knuckling his scalp. Then he smoothed the hair down again, his fingers threading through the curls. “Or like this?”

Bodie's face was absorbed as he kept on … stroking, really.

“Both.” Doyle stood, which made Bodie take his hand back. Taking a step or two around the table, Doyle lifted his own hand and placed it on Bodie's chest, under his shoulder. “What do you want to tell me? Ask me?”

But then he didn't wait for an answer, just took the last half-step and kissed his partner. Bodie's mouth, so good to look at, was also good to feel and taste. Bare dry lips, warm and supple, widening and opening to mirror his own—and he reached up just a little, while Bodie pressed down and in, hot, wet and demanding, his tongue huge and strong. One hand back in Doyle's hair, cupping his head, Bodie scooped him even closer. His arm was hard, like the limb of a tree curved around Doyle's back. Doyle hooked one arm round Bodie's neck and the other over to his back.

“Christ,” said Bodie some time later.

 

> _I'll try hard ignoring those lips I adore,_  
>  _But how long can anyone try?_

 

“Go do a sweep, madman,” Doyle said, Pat's plate in one hand and the other in Bodie's, who had caught him back at the foot of the stairs for another kiss, after kissing him in the kitchen doorway as well.

Bodie reluctantly went up a few stairs, then looked back. “There are bedrooms up there, you know.”

“I saw them. While I went all over the house checking that it was secure, you know, while I was _working_. We're both working. Should be.”

“Yes, yes. But even the protection of the most boring informant in Britain can't last forever.”

“Only seems like it.”

Bodie smiled so widely that Doyle felt light was actually shining from his face.

“Anyway,” Doyle said a little unsteadily, “I want to be in my bedroom or yours, not in some safe-house where the sheets haven't been changed in … who knows?”

“Point,” Bodie said with a grimace. “Tonight, then.”

_Every night if you ask me,_ Doyle thought. _Too soon for that, though._ “Off at eight, when Susan and Jax get here.”

Bodie went up the stairs. Doyle carried Pat his belated meal. While he ate, Pat told Doyle about stocks. At length. He was an investment banker.

This time, Bodie didn't even come in the room, just stuck his head in and made a face. Doyle told Pat, “Sorry, a mo',” and went into the hall, where Bodie kissed him again.

“What're you planning to tell Julie?” Doyle asked.

“Who?” said Bodie.

 

__

> _Chances are some heavenly star-spangled night_  
>  _We'll find out as sure as we live_  
>  _Something's gotta give, something's gotta give,_  
>  _Something's gotta give._

 

 


End file.
